Citrus at Sea

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Welcome to Aaron Menke's Cabinet of Curiosities, a production of iHeartRadio and Grim and Mild.

Our world is full of the unexplainable.

And if history is an open book, all of these amazing tales are right there on display, just waiting for us to explore.

Welcome to the Cabinet of Curiosities.

A fruit is a delicate thing.

Once it becomes ripe, a ticking clock begins.

How long will it last before an animal devours it?

Will it start to rot, or will it drop off and vanish into the dirt?

This is a calculation built into the genes of millions of plants.

The sweet exteriors of fruits protect their seeds and incentivize animals to eat and spread the plant far and wide.

We sometimes forget that the foods we consider ubiquitous have a very specific natural role, and it required a lot of careful engineering to get them to where they are today.

Some, even, had to be invented from whole cloth.

Take the sweet orange.

Its first mention in writing comes from Chinese literature of the 3rd century BC.

It's a hybrid fruit that seems to have originated in East Asia before spreading to the Middle East, Europe, and the rest of the globe.

Along the way, it spawned varieties like the blood orange and the navel orange, and its popularity speaks for itself.

However, as with all fruits, preservation was a significant problem throughout recorded history.

Limes, a sister fruit of the citrus family, became well known as a treat for sailors at sea, but oranges proved to be somewhat more difficult to transport between continents.

Even after Christopher Columbus brought lime seeds to the Caribbean and introduced citrus fruits, production in North America lagged behind.

California hadn't yet been turned into a powerhouse of orange production, so the fruit was seen as an exotic delicacy of sorts.

And those who wanted to serve oranges to their dinner guests had to endure some truly unhinged efforts to transport the fruit.

In January of 1859, tabloids latched on eagerly to a story out of Puerto Rico.

A ship set sail from the islands under full sail, bound for New England.

The goal was to deliver a load of 300,000 oranges to the East Coast in still edible condition, a race against time and nature.

It was an optimistic attempt, however, by the time the ship arrived in Boston Harbor, its cargo was in less than ideal condition.

More than 200,000 oranges, two-thirds of the cargo, had erotted during the voyage.

It might have smelled nice, but that fruit was no longer edible.

Fortunately for the residents of Massachusetts, almost 100,000 oranges is still quite the supply.

On January 25th of 1859, a lavish dinner was held in Boston to celebrate the birthday of poet Robert Burns.

On the menu for the shindig, we can still read about the lavish dishes they ate, but among the dessert menu is a deceptively simple line item, oranges.

It seems that this was the final destination of those nearly rotten fruits from Puerto Rico, and perhaps some of the most inedible ones were still used to help flavor the orange sherbert listed beside it on the menu.

It wouldn't be until much later that someone would propose that ice could be used to preserve food products for transport across the world.

And enterprising individuals would bring orange seeds to different parts of North America attempting to introduce the plant to the new world.

And today, we're not lacking for options wherever we look.

Humans have been eating oranges for at least 2,300 years, but it wasn't until the past few hundred that we finally made it a global possibility.

It's almost a little microcosm of what technological advance really means for a species.

Not conquest or efficiency, but triumph over entropy.

The natural cycle of a plant, a fruit, an animal.

These were once fixed things that started the moment it entered the world.

And now we no longer have to race race ships in order to bulk order citrus fruits.

An orange has gone from being a treasure obtained at great risk to being simply a product.

But maybe if we change our mindset just a little, it can be a treasure again.

This show is sponsored by American Public University.

Balancing work, family, and education isn't easy, but American Public University makes it possible.

With online courses, monthly start dates, and flexible schedules, APU is designed for busy professionals who need education that fits their lives.

And affordability matters too.

APU offers the Opportunity Grant, giving students 10% off undergraduate and master's level tuition, helping you reach your goals without breaking the bank.

Plus, they provide career services and 24-7 mental health support at no extra cost.

Visit apu.apus.edu to learn more.

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Louis was late.

The young teens sped through the cobblestone streets, scattering pigeons as he wove between the horse-drawn carriages.

Pedestrians jumped out of the way, shouting for him to watch where he was going.

Louis ignored them, cutting through parks and over bridges.

until the hotel loomed into view.

He slammed on his brakes and dismounted the bike at a a run.

Jogging to the doorman, he shouted that he was there to see the American.

The doorman blinked in surprise, then pointed him around the corner of the building.

Minutes later, Louis was flat on his back in the alley, bearing down hard on a wrench.

While he worked, he chatted eagerly with the moustached businessman who seemed surprised that his repairman was little more than a child.

Despite his young age, Louis was one of the best workers at the town's bicycle and carriage workshop.

He inherited his mechanical mindset from his father, a Swiss watchmaker, whose floundering business had forced his children to enter the workforce early.

Louis didn't mind, though.

He liked fixing bikes almost as much as he liked riding them.

But the machine he was repairing now wasn't like anything he had worked on before.

It was a steam-powered tricycle, one of the world's earliest self-powered vehicles, and as Louis familiarized himself with the gears and the inner workings, he was already falling in love.

The problem wasn't difficult to diagnose, and Louis had the trike working again in no time.

The American was impressed.

After paying and thanking Louis, he gave him some free advice before speeding away.

Come to America, he said.

We have work for you there.

Days later, Louis would learn that the American was the millionaire and racing enthusiast William K.

Vanderbilt.

He never forgot the interaction or the man's parting words, although it would take years to see them come to fruition.

As soon as he was old enough, he moved to Paris and got a job at an early automotive factory.

He spent his wages on passage to Canada, where he found work as a chauffeur and a mechanic.

And finally, in 1901, Louis arrived in New York City at the age of 23.

It was a far cry from the world of ready jobs and easy money that he had imagined.

Auto companies were shuttering almost as fast as they were opening, and Louis struggled to make ends meet.

He hopped from one car company to to another, slowly working his way up the runs while gaining experience tinkering on early race cars.

But Louis' love for engines wasn't confined to the garage.

When he wasn't building cars, he was racing them.

In 1905, he won New York's three-miles race, setting a track record of 68 miles per hour.

The following year, he broke the world record by reaching speeds of 119 miles an hour in a race car that he built himself.

His skill both in the garage and on the track caught the eye of another American millionaire, William C.

Durant, the founder of GM.

In 1911, the pair partnered to create a new auto company named after Louis since Durant thought that his French-sounding surname would appeal to customers.

At first, the team was wildly productive, quickly releasing four cars designed by Louis.

But disagreements about the direction of the company soon got in the way.

Durant wanted to follow the Ford model of mass-producing affordable cars.

Louis was determined to make the kind of automobiles that he liked to drive.

Fast, powerful, and expensive.

Eventually, the argument escalated over a personal disagreement.

Durant had long been irritated by Louis's habit of smoking cheap cigarettes, which he always chewed out of the corner of his mouth.

One day, after a heated business meeting, Durant suggested that Louis should consider swapping the cigarettes for cigars so that he wouldn't look so out of place next to the other automobile executives.

And for Louis, that was the last straw.

He stormed out in a fury, shouting, I sold you my automobile, I sold you my name, but I shall not sell my personality to you.

Their partnership ended there.

Louis sold his shares to Durant and walked away.

Durant, however, decided to keep the branding, a decision that ensured that Louis's name would endure for over a century, stamped onto cars sold across the world.

Even if few remembered the mechanic and speed demon behind it, a man named named Louis Chevrolet.

I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of the Cabinet of Curiosities.

Subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts or learn more about the show by visiting CuriositiesPodcast.com.

The show was created by me, Aaron Mankey, in partnership with How Stuff Works.

I make another award-winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show.

And you can learn all about it over at theworldoflore.com.

And until next time, stay curious.

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